


May I (not have this dance)

by ang3lba3, Mellomailbox



Series: Polycule? More like poly COOL [4]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Ed Swears, Explicit Consent, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Post-Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood, Semi-Public Sex, creepy old military men living up to their reputations, mild sexual harassment (not royed), past mentions of dubcon (not royed)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:55:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22415098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ang3lba3/pseuds/ang3lba3, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellomailbox/pseuds/Mellomailbox
Summary: General Roy Mustang. As of a few hours ago, that's what he can expect to be called. And with that title change comes privileges: foremost an invitation to the raunchy after hours 'General's Gala' that follows the military Commendation Ceremony. His focus is absolute, his control impeccable.So of course that's when Ed shows up.Also known as "that fic where Roy gives Ed a blowjob instead of talking about his feelings, then has to talk about his feelings anyways."
Relationships: Edward Elric/Roy Mustang
Series: Polycule? More like poly COOL [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1578928
Comments: 1
Kudos: 106





	May I (not have this dance)

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the tags! We started out writing this as a prologue to another RoyEd gala ficlet and it, as usual, got out of hand. Thanks so much to Evan for marathon writing this with me! This is technically part of our poly timeline but can be a stand alone; all you have to know is that Ed's a contractor now post brotherhood, still has alchemy and his automail, and his relationship with Roy is a secret.

When Ed asks Olivier if he can be her plus one, she doesn’t laugh. Ed was kind of expecting a laugh. Contemptuous, disbelieving, whatever.

He wasn’t expecting her to demand he stay right there until she got him the slip of paper that would let him into the Commendation Ceremony as a civilian, and then stay as a guest for the General’s Gala.

But hey. Who looks a gift horse in the mouth?

Not a smart farmer, that’s who.

***

Brigadier General Wittner’s saying something benign and greasy about his nanny as Roy swirls his drink in his hand idly. It’s a passive action that makes him look like he’s a part of the pack even if he never has to take a sip or verbally participate, and blessed for that because he plans to nurse the thing for at least another hour. 

“You know what I mean, eh, mah boy? Now that yer a Brigadier General yerself—” Wittner starts, and in a fit of despair Roy raises the martini to his lips. He needs to be drunker than this to keep nodding along. It’s only 11:30, and he can’t go home until 4 am at the earliest.

It’s the most wretched of initiations, really. See if you can stomach the misogyny and downright fascist pratter, and if you can you get the golden ticket into the den of thieves. The real party starts soon and Roy’s hanging on by his fingernails. One more comment about how good it must have been to have _right of conquest_ over those Ishvalans and he’ll—do nothing. Continue to do. Nothing at all. 

And that’s where Roy is when he sees _him_ : sipping the martini he didn’t want, standing in a room he desperately wants to escape. 

For a moment his brain supplies him with what he thinks Ed _should_ be wearing; dress blues tailored to his thick chest and even thicker arms, silver watch prominently displayed on his breast, commendations and medals marching down his collar. It’s not, of course. Ed’s been retired for long enough that his previous dress uniform wouldn’t fit, not that he’d ever attended one of the Commendation Ceremonies in the past (even when he was up for commendation). 

There’s a box of medals and regalia in a locked drawer of Roy’s desk. Ed had told him to burn them (as if Roy could be capable of bringing anything of Edward’s to ruin in that way), and each time, he hadn’t. The only thing worse than Ed staying in the military long enough to need to wear them would be if he needed them reissued. If he had to ask _nicely_ for that favor, at a General’s Gala. And Ed’s never been good at saying please, even worse at rolling over and letting things happen. 

Edward Elric is hanging off General Olivier’s arm and sucking on the toothpick end of a cocktail umbrella, looking like a hundred thousand cens in his fitted red vest and charcoal suit. His hair’s up halfway, neat as a pin in tiny, delicate braids, and he’s definitely wearing heeled boots. His tongue rolls the brightly colored paper over his lips, eyes sparkling with mischief and cocktail glass in his hand empty, gripped loosely at a careless angle. The boots give his spine a curve that accentuates— 

Olivier’s eyes catch him, a cat spotting her canary, and Roy’s face goes slack in the way that tells her everything she needs to know. The bars on her collar scream _danger_ but he and Olivier have the sort of kinship that allows him to address the threat and deem it lesser. If she’s a cat and he’s a canary, she’s sunning herself on a window seat and he’s made his nest a stone’s throw away. He has no doubt that she’ll leap for him should she decide it worthwhile, but what could Olivier possibly gain from the knowledge that Roy finds Ed stunning in a way that literally steals the oxygen from his lungs? 

Roy isn’t sure that he could call what happens on her face a grin, but the corners of her lips curl, and she tweaks the fingers on her right hand toward her palm. _Come, boy._

Wittner’s still talking. 

  
  


***

“If you keep playing with your food, it’ll go cold,” Ed says to Olivier in an undertone. Mustang probably thinks he’s being subtle, staring at him across the room like a tipped cow. 

“He’ll catch flies like that,” Olivier muses. Ed snorts in agreement. 

“He’ll catch entire birds.” Ed goes to take another sip of his drink, but it’s empty. That’s by design, he’s the one who keeps choosing not to take another glass from the rotating servers just to keep his hands busy, but there’s an awkward moment where he kind of. Pushes the glass up against the umbrella he’s fucking with. And almost chokes. Cuts the inside of his cheek a bit, _definitely_. 

He’s gonna have to take Paninya up on that tongue piercing offer, if he goes to many more of these things. He’s fucking dying.

Mustang sees him do it and his mouth twitches before he turns back to the men in front of him like he’s been paying attention all along and not mooning over Ed’s stunning hair. Maybe some of the seduction slipped away when he deep-throated his cocktail umbrella, but it’s still early in the game. Hell, they haven’t even _started._

“Shall I call him over? Put him out of his misery?” Olivier muses. 

“Nah, let him suffer.”

“He’ll have to suffer closer, I’m afraid.” Olivier shrugs when Ed turns a _well why’d you even ask if you already did it?_ expression on her. “What can I say? I’m enjoying your scintillating wit while it’s focused on me.”

“Do you like fruit or chocolate baskets better?” Ed asks. Olivier lets her hand trail down the curve of Ed’s spine in answer, and he jumps at the pinch of her fucking talons in the meat of his ass.

“You’re an absolute darling, Edward. Now get out of here before I ask for thanks in the traditional manner,” Olivier’s grin is fully solidified, her teeth gleaming far more than anyone’s teeth have a right to, and then slaps Ed’s ass.

Ed didn’t look the gift horse in the teeth, but he’s starting to feel like he’s the horse, that he bartered for something he didn’t understand. Or that he— 

He takes her drink in an outraged swipe, as close to combusting as he’ll get in an event like this one. Her laugh is delighted— the trill of flirtation fake and sweet as candy, something empty and meaningless, a casual approach to life and others that he’s lost if he ever had it. 

He starts walking. 

He hates this moment. This moment where humiliation mingles with outrage, where hubris meets reality. Where he thought he knew what he bargained for and with, and something else is taken instead. Something he didn’t even know was on offer. He’s not hurt, exactly. And he’s not angry at her. He knows a lesson when it’s spoonfed to him: _this is what could have happened, if I’d wanted. Be careful who you ask for favors, little boy, and negotiate in advance._

He should just know better by now. That’s all.

***

Roald has interrupted him three times since they actually started talking politics, and Roy’s fit to cut _him_ off and see how he likes it, the brown-nosing old coot.

“--Yes, I see your point,” _and don’t agree with it_ “but out current embargo rates with Aerugo are only going to affect medical care in the long run when most of our vaccines come from their supply of--” 

Roy cuts himself off this time, the sound of Ed yelping so diametric to the intonations of tipsy men. It’s an extremely distinct yelp, because it’s the one he makes when someone touches his ass. Winry, Roy, the couch— if it’s an unexpected touch to the ass, that’s the noise. 

When he looks over, he doesn’t look at Ed. He looks at Olivier, who is laughing, who is grinning wide with scarlet lips and blowing a kiss after Ed as he stalks away, and the world. Tilts. 

_It’s fine,_ Roy thinks to himself furiously. _Not the same. It’s fine. It’s fine._

Ed is stalking away. Ed is stalking away from Olivier and _directly_ to Roy. Everyone in his little clump stopped to look at what caught Roy’s attention, and they’re all looking at Ed.

The clock chimes midnight.

Ed is there, has breached their circle of dirty old men before Roy can strategize a plan of attack against the rumors that have taken root in the mouths of the monsters around them. Ed’s flanked by them on all sides, and they’re all aware of him in a way that Ed, bless his insanely oblivious self, is completely _unaware_ of. The circle opens, and closes, and Ed’s at the center. It’s poetic in that of a rotten apple still on the branch can be.

Despite the danger, his eyes are on Roy. 

“Dr. Elric,” Roy greets him thinly. There are little red gems in Ed’s ears only noticeable in close proximity. They’re new. What did he do to overcome his fear of puncture? Was this an addition meant for the party, or something completely unrelated? They’d spoken only days ago, a letter tucked into Roy’s desk as recent as yesterday. Why not mention them?

Roy’s sure that his face stays politely placid, and yet Ed’s gaze sharpens in contentment and he practically preens.

“Colonel Mustang,” he replies, and the men laugh at Ed’s slip (it wasn’t, they both know, Ed’s lips curled around _bastard_ like a benediction) and Ed doesn’t even react. It’s as if the men aren’t there; they’re alone, just the two of them, and Ed’s focus is electric. 

They need to get the _fuck_ out of here before someone asks him to share. Before there’s questions about a game of cards in a private room and he has to risk showing too much or being impolite. What the hell was Olivier thinking, giving Ed an invitation to stay past midnight, then sending him off alone? (Except Roy knows what she was thinking. She sent him to Roy, after watching Roy watch him.)

“Care for a smoke in the gardens?” Roy asks. Ed’s eyes sharpen immediately at the code. 

The eyes of the men around him sharpen in an entirely different way. Approving, measuring, predatory, _sharp_ as daggers and sharp as ice and sharp as the edge of a hundred thousand cens bill. 

“You’ll have to provide the cigar,” Ed smirks, and Roy cringes because there’s innuendo and then there’s _Ed._ Roald nearly hoots, he’s so amused, but the way Haymark is eyeing them sets Roy’s teeth. 

“A small price for the company. And I’m sure I can give a spark, should we need one,” Roy raises a hand, rasps his fingers together, a small jet hovering above his index finger. He cuts his eyes to Haymark and Hakuro and smiles. 

Haymark looks away. Ed winks, and leans in, lips pursed—he can’t be—

Ed mockingly blows the flame out, just as Roy’s concentration wavers and breaks, array and intent crumbling into nothing. Gods, but he thinks he can feel those lips on his skin even as he knows he’s wearing his gloves and Ed’s face is far enough away to avoid the implication.

“Lead the way, _Colonel,_ ” Ed says, and this time Roy can see the other men get it. 

Or what they think they can get out of it, anyways. Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist, a Major under Colonel Roy Mustang’s command. They hear a cheeky pet name in the perfect atmosphere for such irreverence and roles. The funny part, if this could have funny parts, is that they must think it’s sincere.

“Gentlemen,” Roy bows his head, “It’s been a pleasure. Perhaps I’ll join you later for bridge, Wittner?” Not cards. Not with Edward here, a temptation stronger than anybody present --himself included-- has the ability to deny. 

“Sure, sure, away with you. Get your young man his… cigar,” Wittner chortles. 

Roy loops his arm loosely in Ed’s, draws him away from the lion’s den. A steady stroll, not too slow, not too rushed. It wouldn’t do to appear to be running away rather than rushing _to._

“You going to tell me what the literal fuck that was about?” Ed says through a warm smile.

Roy laughs mirthlessly. “The literal fuck, indeed.” His grip tightens on Ed’s arm. “Do you have even the _slightest_ idea what sort of implications you’ve placed upon us? Are you _daft?_ ”

“Oh,” Ed says, and then again, like it’s been punched out of him, smile wavering. _“Oh._ ”

“Don’t stop smiling,” Roy hisses, even though it would be his own goddamn fault if Ed did. “Please. I don’t want that to be—”

“Of course,” Ed says, and the smile is back. No longer as warm, a bit tight around the eyes, but enough. “Course.”

“If they’re going to think--”

“I fucking get it, Mustang,” Ed sing songs furiously, and Roy has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his own smile set.  
  


***

The gardens are beautiful, especially at night. There’s flowers here that Ed hasn’t seen since Xing. He can’t imagine the cost of keeping these nightblooming tropics alive in this climate, his brain spiraling into figures of fertilizer and irrigation and labor. 

It’s better than the other places it wants to spiral, and there’s still a ways to walk before he can speak openly.

This close to the mansion there’s still people, cluttered about drinking and sitting too close, but nothing too inappropriate. Well. If Ed pretends he doesn’t have ears and that everyone’s hands are where they’re pretending their hands are, then nothing too inappropriate. Roy leads them past the open lovers, past the lovers pressed against arches and bushes, and into the hedge maze.

Ed says ‘the hedge maze’ like he’d known there’d be one, but he actually hadn’t. It just seems right. Absurd. Fairy tale. Extravagant. (Worth a fortune, the trimming and with that new fungal spreading in from the West—)

Roy’s fingers twitch on Ed’s arm like he wants to keep holding on but thinks that he should pull away. A twitch, Ed calls it, as if it’s not strong enough indecision to set off the automail sensors. It’s a physical hesitancy bellied by the aggressively bland expression, eyelids drooping lazily and lips in a slight pout. They turn the corner and the mask falls.

He’s furious. Or devastated. Or scared. Or angry. Oh. Oh shit, yeah, that’s angry.

“I didn’t know!” Ed gets out as quickly as possible. “I’ve never gone to one!”

“And you didn’t think there was a reason I never _had you go?_ You’ve been in the military for _years_ Edward! Not once did I nor anyone else treat you as a child, and you didn’t think to examine _why_ this would be the _one_ thing I would protect you from?” The effort to keep his voice hushed is herculean when all he wants to do is take Ed by his lapels and shake him. 

“I,” Ed starts, then restarts. He takes a quick step back, but Roy’s still too close, far too close if they’re gonna be fighting. Fucking _hedges._ “Roy. I didn’t _know._ You told me it was boring and that it would damage your reputation if I caused a mess. I—how could I know that this _one time_ it was some kinda code for a fucking, fucking, sex dungeon? It was just this _one time_ right? Shit, how many sex dungeons—” 

Ed shoves at Roy to get some space, fingers clenching around nothing as he gains steam.

“You and your. Your-- fucking CODES. Codes in our letters and codes around everything you tell me and code in how you say hello or order your Xingese. Just _fucking tell me,_ you bastard! I never know what you WANT!” His voice cracks on the last word, too loud.

Roy’s eyes widen and cut to the hedges, of which there could easily be people on the other side, and he’s pressed against Ed’s chest with his palm over his mouth between one breath and the next. Ed flinches with his entire body into the first moment of a throw, then freezes instead of shoving Roy off and Roy whispers, heatedly, “Nothing has changed. I’ve always needed to navigate in secret, and you’ve always chosen to work outside of those networks. This is work, Ed. Why are you here, at my _work?_ ”

Roy doesn’t take his hand away immediately, peels it off slowly and with plenty of warning, gauging Ed’s temper and control. 

Ed closes his eyes. It’s dark here in the maze, hidden from the hanging lights of the arches and the bioluminescence of the Xingese plants. It’s probably not too dark to see the gleam of water on his cheek, more’s the fucking _pity_. 

“I just wanted to surprise you,” he says, voice humiliatingly small. “It’s your first one as a General. I wanted to… I dunno. It was stupid. It’s just, this whole thing was fucking stupid, just lemme go and I’ll get out of here.”

Roy doesn’t immediately let him go, which is just the last indignity in a night full of them, and he opens his eyes to see why the _fuck_ and he’s just— 

***

The ground shifts and for a moment Roy’s sure that Ed’s thrown him. It wouldn’t be the first time. He blinks, slow, lips parting in surprise, breath catching at the sight of tears glimmering on Ed’s cheeks. He’s such a fool. They’re _both_ fools. Ed’s eyes cut up to his and away and Roy finally sucks in the breath where it’s been stuck in his throat, Ed’s name on his tongue.

“ _Edward_ ,” he sighs, and it’s painful in more than just one way.

He wants to explain everything. He doesn’t want to explain anything, how much that— means to him, or why. Ed came here just to see him. Just to see Roy, on his first night as a General. Edward, who doesn’t understand the torrid implications of Roy’s military history, who doesn’t dabble in misery like it’s afternoon tea or a game of goddamn cards. Ed, who loves him, and who wants to support him like a lover would. 

“I was proud of you, okay? You giant fuck up.” Ed smiles, nervously. The expression doesn’t sit easily on his face, a flag of truce so rarely extended. “An’ I don’t know much, but I know Olivier never takes her plus one. Everyone in Briggs always wanted to tag along, get the fuck away from the wall for a while, but she never let ‘em. So… yeah.”

“I am going to kiss you now,” Roy says. The world isn’t tilting, is frighteningly clear for the first time this night. There’s only one thing he can possibly do, and he’s going to do it, and it’s imperative that Ed knows that he’s going to do it and agrees. 

“Okay, but is that a good _mmph—_ ” 

Both palms cup Ed’s cheeks as Roy tilts his jaw up, ignoring Ed’s reasonable question in favor of kissing him madly. It is mad, to be kissing _here,_ after midnight at the General’s Gala where there are dozens of other transactions taking place all around them. But this isn’t a transaction-- well, Ed would argue that point, equivalent exchange and all, but it isn’t the sort of transaction that would follow Roy around foreseeably in the back rooms of military offices. 

Just as Ed begins to relax Roy pulls away. His hands are on his neck, silk gloves on sweat damp skin despite the chill in the air. “You, my dear, are the _best_ idea,” he tells him. Despite the cavallier words his tone is sincere, meant to mitigate any doubts Ed may have on the matter. 

“Shaddup,” Ed mutters, face flushed from the kiss and now beet red. “Guess it’s not any worse than what they think we’re doing, anyways.”

He gets that look in his eyes, that _Edward_ look, the one that precedes the best and worst of mislaid plans. “I mean… no reason that we can’t do what they were thinking.”

Roy inhales sharply. “No.”

Ed flinches, confused, and Roy rushes to fix it. But not Ed on his knees. For him. Here.

“No,” he says softer, saucier, and drops to his own knees. Terrible idea. The gravel digs through the wool of the dress uniform and into his skin immediately. 

“May I,” he starts, stops. Inhales. He wants Ed in so many ways-- he wants him in the way he wants the Fuhrership, in the way he wants his friends and family close. Here, at these cursed events, Roy can’t allow himself to do more than survive. To want is dizzing. It’s terrifying. It’s powerful, and if it were anyone but Ed he would be disgusted with himself. 

“Smoke my cigar?” Ed asks, snickering a little. He’s worried, the hand that lands on Roy’s head gentle, thumb stroking against his temple in a soothing pattern. _Stroke, stroke, tap._

“Wretch,” Roy mutters gratefully against the cotton of Ed’s pants. 

He puts his hands to the latch of Ed’s belt, doesn’t want to ask again, knows he sounds strange and desperate and lost, but says, “May I?”

Ed swallows, voice raspy. Roy can feel the hardness of him through his trousers, where his palms rest below his politely stilled fingers. “...yeah.”

It isn’t the same. Roy’s traversed these waters before, although not as often as he’d like. Ed’s skin is a balm and he opens his mouth to it, lets it numb his words as his eyes flutter closed. He smells like the same soap he always smells like, and when his automail hand tightens in his hair the pain is familiar, the finger joints creaking underneath the silk of Ed’s glove.  
  
“Guh,” Ed says as Roy slides the slacks down further, tongue curling around the base of his cock. When he slits his eyes open he sees gold, the trail sneaking into the cavern of Ed’s shirt, the tails of which are draped around Roy’s hands.They slide back to cup the back of Ed’s thighs for support and pull him closer. 

It isn’t the same. He can feel the gravel through his dress pants and he’s on his knees in the hedge maze, but it _isn’t the same._ Ed’s silk glove is so soft against his forehead. _Stroke, stroke, tap._

Roy goes to take the head into his mouth. Stops. Absurd. Absurd to stop now. But still— 

“May I?”

Ed whines, curls in on himself a little, covers his mouth with the hand not on Roy’s head and pants into it for a moment. His cock twitches in Roy’s hand, clear pre-come dripping down onto Roy’s fingers. Roy’s mouth is watering.

 _“May I?”_ he asks, more insistently.

Ed nods, over and over, shoulders trembling, hand over his mouth digging into the skin. The hand on Roy’s head is as gentle as ever, motionless in the way Ed becomes when he can’t trust his own strength.

Roy swallows him. It would be easier, now, to close his eyes, to let the world narrow to the smooth weight on his tongue and the timed breath through his nose. He wants to. Wants to lose himself in this. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to lose a second of it.

Soft whimpers like wind-chimes ground him, slipping between Ed’s fingers to drop into his ears. He can feel the tremble in Ed’s stomach and thighs as he holds himself still, the irregularity of his breaths as he struggles to stay silent. This is Ed, _his_ Ed, trying to hold himself together, control himself in a way that he’s helpless to with a warm mouth around his cock. Roy knows this. Roy knows _him._

He blinks, lashes catching on Ed’s hair and skin, and presses the flat of his tongue against Ed’s slit, catches the taste of salt and moans. The reaction is doubled back, Ed moaning and tipping forward, Roy forced to slip his palms along the curve of Ed’s ass to keep him balanced. _I didn’t ask,_ he thinks wildly.

Roy presses at the hand on his head insistently, the automail that lies there completely motionless for fear of hurting him. He moves forward, back, demonstratively. He _didn’t ask, he didn’t ask,_ it’ll be better if Ed can just _do_.

“No—Roy, I can’t,” Ed whispers. “I’ll hurt you.”

Roy has to pull off to laugh breathlessly, choking at the unexpected urge trembling in his throat. “Ed.”

“Roy,” Ed whispers. 

“You have two hands.”

“Oh.”

“Uh huh.”

“M-may I?” Ed asks, removing his automail hand, flesh hand hovering hesitantly.

Roy blinks away the tears. Absurd. Useless. He hasn't even deep throated him yet, and he’s crying like a—

"Yeah,” he whispers. He nods. He removes a hand from Ed’s ass to give a thumbs up. Ed snorts, puts his hand down. 

Roy tries to put his hand back. It hovers. 

“May I?” he whispers, and then they’re both giggling helplessly. 

There’s relief, now, and Roy waggles his eyebrows when Ed nods, gripping the flesh there and squeezing playfully. He leans forward to curl his tongue around Ed’s cockhead in a mimicry of what Ed was doing to his cocktail umbrella, eyes on Ed’s the entire time.

It’s not the same. Ed smiles with teeth and pushes against Roy’s lips, smearing him with precome and stroking his hair a little before he tugs. _Stroke, stroke, tug._

Roy lets his eyes fall closed this time, and in his hair, _stroke stroke tug,_ keeping him grounded even as he breathes in the scents of the garden, feels the gravel under him and his toes starting to go numb and prickly, hears the sounds of the distant revelry. 

Slide, breathe, swallow, slide, breathe, swallow, and the constant drag across his lips and tongue is maddening. He doesn’t do this often. He needs to do this more often, needs to do it _always._ Ed falling apart in him and over him, Ed so gentle everywhere he touches him, and it’s at odds with how Ed’s quite literally fucking his face in a public venue. 

Edward’s never this gentle with him, rides him hard and puts him away wet. They’ve been together months and making love to Ed always turns into fucking. It’s exhausting and exhilarating, and he hadn’t even realized anything was wrong with it. But this—

“Roy, Roy, Roy,” Edward hisses, voice frantic in warning, tugging at the back of his neck. 

Roy pulls off, but when Ed moves his hand to pull himself off, Roy shakes his head. “May I?”

“But I’m gonna—”

“Edward,” Roy asks, desperate. “May I?”

“Oh God,” Ed’s stomach clenches, hard, but he’s nodding even as his body curls away. Roy chases after him, heart in his throat, pulse thundering, mouth open as he swallows Ed back down with a whimper of satisfaction and _sucks_.

“FUCK!” Ed shouts, and that’s not-- it’s not a shouted lovers quarrel or a cried declaration of love, so Roy allows it, couldn’t stop it even if he wants to because Ed’s keening and coming, bowed over Roy, muscles taut under Roy’s hands as he swallows down the hot rush of Ed’s climax. 

He’s never been so happy that Ed tends to sound more like he’s killing someone than orgasming.

Ed trembles, hips twitching as he fights the urge to fuck into Roy’s face, still gentle even in this. Roy swallows and licks and gasps, lips fat and numb as he works Ed through it and into the aftershocks, kissing his slick cock until it’s softening and Ed’s whining and pulling away.

He opens his eyes as Ed leans down, and it’s then that he realizes that while Ed’s wavering a little, he’s the one who’s trembling. He didn’t come-- he couldn’t, probably, even as he was feverishly aroused by Ed-- but he feels like he has. He’s dizzy with it, forehead pressed against Ed’s hip, lashes damp from Ed’s sweat and tongue salted with his semen. Each breath is a desperate pull, gasping, and something wells in his throat and gets stuck there.

Ed’s hand finds his hair, _stroke, stroke, tap_ and Roy breaks. 

***

Ed’s pretty sure his toes are curled like that, just, permanently. He’s also pretty sure he pulled a calf muscle. And about a dozen others.

Fucking _worth it._ Every single moment of tonight worth it. Even the bruise Olivier left. 

The world filters back to him in increments. Cold night air in his lungs. Some man not fifteen feet away groaning, _aw fuck yeah baby so tight,_ over and over. Not sure how he didn’t notice that earlier, except he’s entirely sure how, because Roy just sucked his brains out through his dick. Roy’s arms wrapped around his legs in a big hug, his face pressed against Ed’s hipbone, and he’s—

Shaking kind of a lot. Even considering the come down.

“Babe?” Ed asks, then wants to smack himself. He’s never used pet names before, and this is how he’s gonna start? ”Uh. Roy? You okay down there?”

The shaking increases, and Ed’s officially worried. There’s no time to regrow the brain matter Roy stole, apparently they’re doing all the feelings right now. “Roy, I’m gonna...sit down. Okay? Can you let go of me a little—” _if you say sweetie we don’t leave this house alive_ “—okay?”

Roy nods, chin digging into Ed’s hip, and it takes far too long for his arms to relax and pull away. He keeps his fingers curled loosely on Ed’s pants as he hikes them back up, the movement as he kneels next to Roy pulling Roy’s palm onto his thigh. It’s a comfortable spot, although Roy’s fingers are still trembling. 

“So uh,” Ed starts, and he’s so. He’s so goddamn lost here. Roy’s teeth clicking together, just slightly, over and over, and he’s rocking back and forth. Shocky. Panicked. _What the fuck._ Ed puts his hand over Roy’s, and some small amount of tension goes out of him. Not enough, though. “Roy?”

Roy clears his throat and licks his lips. He’s ducking his face away in a passive gesture that’s obscenely unlike him, eyes blinking slowly at the dirt. 

Okay. So Ed’s gonna be talking. That’s. Cool. He can talk to someone having a panic attack. He can do this. He’s emotionally available. Sensitive. Tactful. 

“These hedges must cost a whole fuck ton to maintain,” Ed blurts out. Roy doesn’t flinch away, doesn’t seem to improve, but he isn’t getting worse, so Ed just—goes with it. Fuck. “Okay, so these types of hedges? Are currently suffering from an invasive species. A type of Xingese aphid, the fuckers’ll eat anything. Not totally your fault even if you are pro-trade as fuck, so I’ve been bitching Ling out in every letter for two months now asking about…”

He goes on like that for a while. A. Long while. Long enough that Roy seems to start actually hearing what he’s saying, which is apparently all it takes for him to taper off with an awkward, “...and that’s why Widow Mcabee won’t stop stealing off Winry’s lemon tree. It’s getting dire. Really.”

“...Ed,” Roy says, and there’s no waver or hesitation in it. He looks up. His eyes are dry, if a little wide. The pupils dilated, but it’s dark out here, so there’s nothing to read into there. Probably. Roy’s back straightens and he uncurls his fingers from Ed’s pants. “Edward.”

He’s somehow prim and collected and every inch the put together man Ed used to disrespect on the daily. It’s like building a wall or putting on a mask or changing his posture, and like none of those things.

“That’s me,” Ed agrees. He takes Roy’s hand in his, since they’re doing this now apparently. “I am… Ed Edward.” 

A huff of a laugh and Roy leans his forehead against Ed’s shoulder. “Here’s my offer. 500 cens to run away and get pie.” 

“Hm. Tempting. Counteroffer: how ‘bout zero cens, and you tell me what the—” Ed swallows the profanity. It’s natural for him, for _them,_ but nothing about this night has been natural. He doesn’t wanna sound harsh. “--what that was all about. Cuz it uh...”

How does one say ‘you freaked me the FUCK out tonight, and yeah it was super hot, but then you were _shaking_ , and now I’m really starting to wonder if I should have even said yes at all because clearly something was wrong’?

“...things were kind of off,” he finishes lamely.

Roy’s head shoots up and he’s staring at Ed a little wildly. “You didn’t,” he says. “I thought— you said yes.” He cringes again, lip between his teeth. 

“What?” Ed asks. The thoughts are ricocheting too fast around his skull, and so he just says all of them. “Yeah. I mean. That’s kinda what I mean? Not me. You. You were checking like... Fuck. Roy. We don’t do that many consent check ins. Usually we go from about to punch each other to making out. That’s all I mean. I didn’t—it was _great_ and I wanted it and if you ever wanna do it again I am _so fucking there_. But you’re not acting like you wanted it, exactly. I guess. So again. What happened?” 

Roy’s expression mellows out again as Ed gives just, the _most_ succinct and eloquent summary of his feelings _ever_. He doesn’t reply immediately, instead answers with a kiss. It’s gentle, just a press of lips before he pulls back again and closes his eyes. “I want you,” he clarifies, “and I wanted this. This was-- thank you.” His voice is a little raw in a way that’s distractingly sexy, and he pushes his hand through his already mussed hair and leans back, assessing Ed. 

“I didn’t intend to frighten you. You deserve,” he stops, eyes glancing around the hedges again. The slapping and moaning from their left has stopped, and now the gardens are eerily quiet.  
  
“You said zero cens to grab a bite?” Roy asks mildly. 

Ed shrugs. “I meant more like you couldn’t pay me enough to avoid this conversation, but...yeah. Sure. If you wanna throw food in, I’m not gonna say _no._ The crood-ights were shit.”

Roy’s lips twitch and Ed can’t help it. “The horse-devours. The pat-ties. Y’know, the appeteasers? Come with ch-am-pag-en?” 

“I can’t stand you,” Roy rumbles fondly, slowly getting to his feet. 

“Looks like you’re standing just fine,” Ed says, rolling to his own feet. Fuck. Fuck. Ow. His legs are _sore_ . All he did was stand there, what the _fuck._

There’s a pinch at Ed’s side and he yelps, Roy’s hands suspiciously folded away in his pockets, smirk not even a little hidden. “Must be those hedges. These kind have thorns, right? But they’re not the right material to deflect the Xingese.. what was it’s scientific name? Shitwizard Beetle?”

“I’ll show _you_ a shitwizard,” Ed grumbles, touching his hands together in a clap threateningly. There’s no array in his mind, no blue lightning against his palms. “Ya beetle.”

“Oh no, not the shitwizard,” Roy says flatly, and begins to march out of the maze. It’s the quick march and turn that means he’s on the verge of cracking up.

“We’re off to see the shitwizard,” Ed sings, and Roy starts cackling.

Yeah. They’re gonna be fine.

***

This isn’t a conversation he’d ever planned on having. It’s not that he means to keep things from Ed, not in the way that Ed feels he does. There’s just so much he _doesn’t_ think about. These things he ignores are irrelevant-- or so he thinks-- to his happiness with Ed. With everyone, really. His past is his past, and even as it’s defined him in the same way that Ed’s has, his present is so much more important. Profoundly more important, to the point that he just… doesn’t think about anything else. How can he, with Ed sitting across from him in a dimly lit diner, shoveling fries into his mouth while shooting rude comments at him easy as breathing? How can he spare the effort for anything other than this?

“Usually the dinner comes first,” Ed says, face freezing as he realizes his implication and the joke falling flat. 

“I know my place. If I gave you the food first we’d never get to anything else,” Roy attempts to smooth over the hiccup and Ed sets down the fry in his hand. He props his chin on his palm instead, looking intently at Roy. He’s not so daft as he plays at, if he can feel the tension shift well enough to lean into it. 

“Yeah. Well. Food’s over. Let’s get to something else.” Ed sighs dramatically, twirls a braid that had come loose from his updo around a finger. “I guess I’m just better than your wildest dreams. So let’s like. Be emotionally mature and talk and shit.”

Roy grimaces. Ed wanting to be mature and talk about their feelings never ends well for him, specifically.

“I suppose you’re due the story on how I became a Colonel,” Roy sighs dramatically.

He steals a fry off of Ed’s plate, gloves set aside, and nibbles on it as Ed rolls his eyes. “Gag.” There’s no heat in it, each of them playing their part over the tempo of their real conversation. 

“I’m not sure that it occurred to you, given that you were always insisting I was on the brink of dying of old age, but I was rather young for that promotion. Incredibly young, actually.” Roy pauses. Lets the silence stretch between them like taffy. “Suspiciously young, even, if one was going to be suspicious about such things.”

“Speak clearly,” Ed prompts, swallowing down the insult that would have typically followed. Roy can tell. He sees him choke on it. 

Roy’s not sure he can spell it out any more without actually — _gasp —_ spelling it out. A glance around the diner that would have been comical, were anything about this funny, and he leans in. 

“That was not my first General’s Gala,” he says bluntly. Best to just spit it out, then. Again his heart pulses in his ear, the salt from the fry stealing all moisture from his mouth. There’s not-- he doesn’t feel shame about it. Not anymore. He wouldn’t have done it, if shame were an obstacle, but here, dead center of Edward Elric’s calculating gaze, Roy finds himself afraid of his opinion. “It was shortly before my promotion.”

Surely even Ed can divine enough from this. But he’s silent. His face is neutral. He’s not _speaking._

“Riza and Maes were still on the front lines. I’d gotten pulled back for a commendation, a few medals. The usual. I thought— I knew that if I reached Colonel, I could choose my own team. Have some sway.”

“The Commendation Ceremony is at 10 PM,” Ed says. He’s working it out. “But the party starts at 8.”

“By design, yes.” Roy smiles sickly.

“Hey. Don’t do that.” Ed drops the hand from under his chin, reaches across the table and knocks affectionately at Roy’s chin. “You don’t have to smile about this. Not if you don’t wanna. I can handle a sour face once in a while.”

The smile drops obediently and leaves surprise in its wake, then trepidation. Once in a while, Ed says, and if only he knew. Still, Roy’s focused on the now, and he takes Ed’s hand where it’s laying in a fist on the table, aware that they’re alone and calculating this fact in his decision to rub his thumb over his knuckles in a way that he knows would drive Ed up the wall.

“I must admit that I’m more than a little wary of your opinion on all of this. The reason I kept you from it must be obvious, now.” 

Ed smiles wryly, and with the dark circles creeping under his eyes and the old soul inside of them he suddenly looks much older than he is. He rubs his face a little, shakes his head. “I think it was obvious a bit before that, Roy. But… that said…”

He pauses, clearly arranging his words before saying them.

Goodness. There really is a first time for everything.

“I don’t mean this bad. But my opinion on this...doesn’t matter. I think—Roy, if I thought _less_ of you, then my opinion wouldn’t mean shit. That I respect you more means even less. You did something incredibly… I couldn’t. And you knew that. That’s why you didn’t let me go. And it’s just like, Roy. Seriously. What I think does not fucking matter.” Ed smiles, warm and bright. “But for what it’s worth I’m still proud of you, General Bastard. Congratulations on your promotions, you horrible, courageous, self sacrificing twit.” 

The silence after Ed’s done talking is comfortable. Roy watches him watching him, blinking slowly and processing Ed’s sentiments, rolling them in his mouth and swallowing them down. He’s so full of affection for this incredible man, so full of love and admiration and an appreciation so heavy it’s near philosophical. Something in him broke at the Gala long before Ed showed up. Just being back there in the role of the abuser-- yes, he can say it, if only in the safety of his mind-- splintered something in him that he hadn’t prepared for. 

He’d been expecting to end the night still broken. Instead, Ed had held him and told him about fertilizer and about threatening a foreign power with wedgies over a bug. Roy had stumbled through the motions of something long past, trying to recontextualize it and acting barely himself, and Ed had been there with him, unbelievably gentle and supportive through his own confusion, and--

“Oh _fuck no,_ don’t you start crying just cuz I was _nice_. You’re getting soft in your old age, Mustang. Used to be I could bet you pocket change you’d rule the country and you’d barely sniffle,” Ed says, cutting him off at his internal spiral just in time for more plates to arrive. It’s natural to pull their hands away to collect their food, and Ed’s eyes follow Roy’s fingers, likely calculating how he didn’t snatch them away. 

“Do you think I should do something about the exchange that takes place during the General’s Gala?” Roy asks Ed gently. They’re alone again, a mouthful of pastry already stuffed in Ed’s cheek. He wants to know. Something inside of him _needs_ guidance from Ed in this, specifically. Sometimes he worries he’s too jaded, and only Ed’s automail knuckles and Riza’s steel gun barrel can set him straight. 

“...which kinda exchange? The kind you did for a rank, or the kind where y’all get your dicks out in front of each other so everyone is equally implicated, or all the other ones where Olivier was dropping weird ass threats and hints to people while sippin’ colored tonic water?”

“Tasteful,” Roy intones, and he spreads his hands out in front of him as if to say _all of the above_. 

Ed hums, eats a bit more of his pie. “Well, leaving aside that you’ve been a General about as long as some babies born yesterday have been breathing, I think… you already drew your line. A long time ago. And the line was me. Or, well, the line was children. I’m not gonna pretend that I wanna know everything that happens. Everything you— do. Or say. Or have to, in order to unfuck this fucking mess of a country. But the line being children, and the line being people who say no. That’s—you could do worse. So just keep saying ‘may I’ when you can, and keep kids out of it. Even if you have to step on some toes.” 

It’s insightful and startlingly practical. Roy doesn’t know why he’s disappointed with the answer. “I was expecting a rant about tearing down the establishment to make it better,” Roy admits, working around _the line was me_ in his head over and over. He hadn’t realized. That Ed has that much impact on his choices-- even as an adult, when Ed was old enough, when he was _Roy,_ he’d kept him away. 

“Expected? Nah, you _wanted_ me to hand you an excuse. And no offense, but I don’t think Riza’s gonna take a doctor’s note signed by Edward Elric excusing your chronic coup problem as incurable.” Ed takes a sip of his coffee. “I know that you hate to accept it, but I’ve grown up just a bit since 16. If you wanna burn some shit down, you just gotta own your arsonist tendencies.”

“Chronic coup-- I do _not_ ,” Roy says, indignant, fork pointed accusingly at Ed. They’re talking about things Roy doesn’t think about so plainly. Incredibly, it doesn’t hurt. “And furthermore, if we’re talking destructive impulses I have years of damage reports with your name on them, Fullmetal.” 

“Rabble rouser,” Edward says pitilessly. “Inciter. Bet you disrupt the peace on weekends, don’t you? Do you distribute pamphlets?”

“You would know peace if it bit you on the ass,” Roy shoots back. “It’s downright obscene, you trying to defend it.”

“Funny thing for _peace_ to do, bite me,” Ed says. “Sounds like you’re projecting again. You should see someone about that. Calling me obscene when you’re talking about my ass.”

Roy’s eyes twinkle. “I’m free tonight, Dr. Elric. Perhaps you can give me a referral?” 

“I think I’ll have to do a more thorough physical examination before I can,” Ed starts, but then cracks up. “I’m sorry, shit, I can’t. Winry and Al would _kill me_ if I joked about having that kind of doctorate. Fuck. I can feel them screaming about rotations from across the country.”

Roy takes too many bills out of his wallet and leaves them on the table. “Riza would give me a reason to see a doctor if I so much as _hinted_ at abusing the opportunity,” he agrees sagely. “How about we get to it before we’re discovered, hm?” 

“How bout that,” Ed says, but he stands, cracking his neck and back, a slow roll of his neck and then his hands stretched out far behind him until there’s an audible click. “Hnngh.”

Roy stands and watches Ed’s display, openly appraising the way his spine curves and his hair tumbles across the charcoal fabric of his suit. He’s full of warmth and heavy with exhaustion, and offers his elbow and shows his teeth in a smirk. “May I?”

“Yeah,” Ed says, smiling in that secret little way that crinkles his nose up and keeps his lips pressed close together, like he’s trying to hold it in and losing horribly. He loops his arm with Roy’s, stands a bit closer than necessary. “You _may.”_

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> find ang3lba3 on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/cryingiscooltm)


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